


Before The Sun Sets

by Anonymous



Category: Original Work
Genre: Bargaining, Body Exploration, F/M, Forest Sex, Mildly Dubious Consent, Monsters, Oral Sex, Sacrifice, Vaginal, Vines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-14 15:41:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29919108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Those marked as future sacrifices are never allowed to join the escort, but Rosalind has heard the stories, so has everyone. Heard the howl of the wolves from where she waits back in the village. The moon going behind the clouds until the sacrifice is finished with. The stars flickering out.It’s Rosalind’s turn now and, frankly, she’s not having it.
Relationships: Male Monstrous Forest Deity/Young Woman Sent to Forest as Sacrifice, Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6
Collections: Teratophilia Trade 2021





	Before The Sun Sets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Semjaza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semjaza/gifts).



They lead the sacrifices into the heart of the forest at night. Garbed only in a thin white shift, hands bound before them with the sacred rope. A blindfold over their eyes and gag over their mouth. Trembling fingers twisting together in fear as the villagers walk them barefoot towards the monster, over sharp twigs and dead leaves. Those marked as future sacrifices are never allowed to join the escort, but Rosalind has heard the stories, so has everyone. Heard the howl of the wolves from where she waits back in the village. The moon going behind the clouds until the sacrifice is finished with. The stars flickering out.

It’s Rosalind’s turn now and, frankly, she’s not having it. They lock her in the topmost room of the highest house in the village where she’s supposed to stay until nightfall and two stalwart, reliable villagers – the butcher and the baker’s son – volunteer to stand watch at the door.

Rosalind takes a bath like she’s supposed to just so they can imagine her dutiful splashing and think there’s nothing to investigate, speeds through quietly washing her hair and scrubs her body, pops her underwear on under the stupid thin shift, and then steps back into her reliable old boots after, binds her hair up so it’s out of the way and tosses her heavy cloak on over her shoulders; she’d had to bite her tongue earlier to hide her victory when they’d given in to her request to keep it ‘until the time comes’.

Getting the window open as silently as she can, Rosalind angles her way out of it, more difficult than she’d expected despite her practice runs with the other, lower apertures she’d been able to take advantage of, any kind of opening she’d been able to access when unobserved. There’s a nasty moment now when she has to twist her hips awkwardly and gravity catches at her, trying to drag her out uncontrollably, but then she worms free from the frame and is scrabbling at the ivy on the sill like it’ll be enough to save her if she does fall.

It’s not the first time she’s shimmied down a drainpipe; she’s even managed that much once before. Rosalina thanks the stars most people stick to their houses on the eve of an offering, gets herself down to ground level by the time the sun is starting to sink, and starts off away from the village, towards the trees.

She’s got a good-sized rock in one hand and a stick in the other by the time she reaches the heart of the forest, but she doesn’t think she’s going to need them. No one ever comes back after they’re sacrificed or so the stories go – but maybe they just keep on going. Maybe the escort leaves them there where the monster’s said to devour them, on the great smooth expanse of stone she finds beneath a whole bunch of huge trees, resting between their roots like some sort of altar.

Maybe the others had just manage to untie their hands and keep walking, setting their backs to everything they’ve grown up with and all that they know. Maybe there is no monster. Maybe they just leave.

This is Rosalind’s plan.

First though, she’s hungry. She plucks a few roots to snack on, washing them first in the pool of water not far from the altar-stone. Splashes her face first and drinks her fill, and then chews a leaf while she scrubs the roots clean. Bites the tip off one with a satisfying crunch, glances up at the sky and wonders if there really are wolves. Wonders whether it’s worth carrying on now or finding somewhere to hole up and continue to make her escape come morning. Wonders what’s out there, beyond the woods.

“All right, bastard,” Walking back over the the altar, Rosalind kicks the stone, “Come out and face me, you plonker.” She bites another mouthful, finds it offensively brackish. Spits it out, “Bet you don’t exist.”

The massive branch-antlered craggy figure made from stabby branches and split wood is covered in moss and definitely seems to exist. It lurks at her, groan like the last of the sunlight hurts it, like a shriek.

“No you don’t, you fucker,” Rosalind evades when it stabs surprisingly fast branch-arms down at her, swings her stone at it – too slow, “Besides, I’m just imagining things.” Then completely unexpected panic catches up with her and she comes over all wobbly, and totally fails to flee.

Fuck. _Fuck_. It’s _so huge_. Vines sprout out of its arms like hands and lash around her ankles, and that’s enough to have her crashing painfully down onto the forest floor – she hadn’t managed more than _three fucking steps_ in her attempt to run away.

So much for her having planned this out. So much for her being prepared to defend herself. It gets hold of her cloak, lifts her by it and her hair while she thrashes and shrieks. Gets her onto her back on the altar, the air forced out of her by the impact, two burning green eyes opening up in the depths of its craggy face when it rolls her back over ungently.

“Stop!” Rosalind shoves a hand out towards it, only thinking too late it might bite or tear it off or something, fuck, “Stop, you giant bastard, it’s not sunset yet!”

It isn’t. And the monster somehow, for some insane reason –

Stops. And cocks it’s head.

“You –” She’s panting almost too much to get the words out; there are more vines going over her, tugging her boots off, pulling the cloak back, looping around each ankle individually now and spreading her legs. She almost asks _are you actually listening to me? Do you understand?_ Changes it to, “Whatever you usually do my moonlight, the sun’s still in the sky now. So you bloody well do something else instead.”

A creak and a long deep groan that rumbles from it right into her body through the stone. A dip of its massive head nearer to her, almost as if it’s smelling her, although she can’t see any nose – no mouth either, come to think of it. Just all that foresty shit formed into a parody of a giant man and –

And yeah. It’s not an ‘it’. Rosalind stills a little, looks at the way it – _he_ – is looking at her, looks down at her body in the thin white shift and the way he’s towering over her almost hungrily.

No, make that definitely hungrily.

_Shit_. Her sigh is profound. “All right.”

He tips his head further.

She rolls her eyes, “I said all right, didn’t I? You want something from me. I want to get out of here. So let’s make a deal.” Very very aware that this huge giant monster could just rip her apart without effort and that would be it. That it’s only the power of her words she holds over it, probably. What little daylight is left will soon be gone.

The vines let her reach out to touch his broad chest, fingers tracing over knots and whorls in the bark. He lets her.

“You want to fuck me?” Rosalind asks this almost gently, “Could be worth doing, maybe?” For him maybe, more than her. The way those burning eyes are considering her it makes him looks _fascinated_. Or maybe she’s just flattering herself.

“Make it good for me and I’ll make it good for you,” She coaxes. Because – well, it’s been a while. And she knows what she likes and if she’s never considered giant men made out of trees before, well – maybe that was just a lack of imagination on her part.

And it’s still better than being eaten.

It’s still a little scary when he nods his great head. But he doesn’t make any more sudden moves when she draws the stupid shift up higher on her thighs, doesn’t tighten the vines – although he doesn’t loosen them around her legs either – and those eyes warm her whole body as she lifts her hips to get the shift up higher again.

In the end, it turns out he does have a tongue – of sorts, anyway. Maybe just another vine. In the end, Rosalind finds her whole body arching, head thrown back and eyelids screwed shut with the pleasure of it. Of leaves brushing almost tenderly all over her skin, everywhere she reveals to him. Of vines and little creepers curling over her almost delicately in their wake. Tapered ends flickering over her nipples, rubbing over her lips. She sucks and lips at them and relishes the sound of him shuddering. Shifts her hips and widens her knees to give him better access as more vines investigate her ass and thighs.

The first light touch of a vine against her sex feels better than she ever expected. It doesn’t take much encouragement to get him to realise she wants the smooth supple length to keep on investigating, to carry on _inwards_. It doesn’t take much work on her part before it’s fucking her, before he’s fucking her, that groan rumbling out of him and through the stone into her again.

The leaves that stroke over her clit leaving her trembling more than any touch she’s felt before. The vines that follow them do the same. He draws the vine out from her to her increasingly heartfelt protests, but the way he stoops over to tuck his great face right in between her legs steals her breath away.

Something unfurls then, from where his mouth would be. Softer and wetter than she thought it would be, taking its time investigating her labia even as a vine circles her clit. The first push of that inhuman tongue inside her has her shuddering with an orgasm hard enough to make her cry out. It keeps on going even as she spasms – _he_ keeps on going – and then he’s fucking her with it, licking into her deeper and deeper, further than the vine went, further than Rosalind ever thought anything would.

In the end, she comes so many times she almost feels faint. In the end, she wraps her arms around his broad neck and lets him pick her up from the altar.

In the end, she presses her face against his shoulder as he carries her gently away.

She’s still planning to leave. In the morning she’s going to find what happened to her cloak – gone at some unknown point – and gather up her boots. Get that stone of hers or a new one. Find some more roots to chew, have another drink of water and get away.

But for now it doesn’t seem so bad just to let him have a little more time with her. He hasn’t come yet to her knowledge – maybe he can’t. But if he can? If there’s more he can do, more tricks that he’s hiding?

Well, she’s got a promise to keep.


End file.
